


A Family of Our Own

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Series: Tending Goats and Picking Vegetables [3]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being granted their freedom, Barca and Pietros acquire four children in a myriad of different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elissa

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains non-graphic references to the Roman practice of abandoning unwanted infants.

“Lucia is expected to give birth next week,” Pietros says offhandedly as he chops vegetables. “Fulvia thinks she will abandon the babe.”

That catches Barca’s attention. Lucia and her husband are the richest couple in town; raising a child would not be a hardship for them. He looks up with a frown.

“Why?”

“Its paternity. Her stomach swells too large, too soon, for her husband to be its father; if it is born a girl, he will not take the trouble to raise her.”

Barca stands and hugs Pietros from behind, pressing close as he can. Pietros leans against him gratefully and turns his head slightly to rest against his shoulder. A weary sigh escapes his lips, and Barca kisses his temple.

“Death does not touch us here,” he reminds him.

They remain still for a long moment as Pietros grieves. Barca knows that the loss of an innocent life is too great for him to express, and his capacity for compassion is endless. Barca kisses him again and returns to the table.

-

The next morning, Barca is coming back inside after milking the two goats, when Pietros asks hesitantly, “Do you like children?”

He thinks of the boy. He nods, but something in his face must give him away, because Pietros does not press the issue.

-

The night the girl is born, Barca walks into town and waits on the side of the road. He told Pietros he would be away, possibly until morning, and left him asleep and warm in their bed. He wraps his cloak tightly around him and tries not to hope.

Just as the full moon reaches its peak, a figure approaches. Barca sees her before she sees him; she has the light, quick walk of a slave, and she carries in her arms a bundle of soft, embroidered blankets. A mother’s last gift. His heart begins to pound.

The slave sees him and her whole body stiffens. She clutches the babe closer and turns away—towards the town, or the garbage piles beyond that, or the river beyond those.

“Wait.”

She turns around and Barca can see that she is trembling, but she lifts her chin bravely.

“Domina will not have her go to the slavers,” she says. “She is for the gods.”

“I am no slaver.” He hesitates, and steps forth, baring his brand. “You would have given her to the gods—Tanith gives her to me.”

He does not know if the slave understands his words, or if it is the assurance in his voice that convinces her. Slowly, she approaches him. She kneels and places the bundle at his feet. When she stands, their eyes meet for a moment. Hers are dark and solemn. Before he can react, she turns and walks away.

The blankets do not stir. He kneels down and carefully peels away the coverings, layer by precious layer. Inside, the babe is sleeping peacefully. Barca reaches out tentatively with one finger to stroke her face. Her breath is steady, her skin soft and hot.

He could still walk away.

He gathers the babe in his arms and stands. The girl weighs next to nothing; Barca cradles her close and begins the long walk home.

-

“Sentimental old fool.”

Barca turns, and in the light of the moon, Pietros’s smile is broad on his face. He steps forward and holds out his arms.

“I could not leave her in the cold,” Barca says.

He moves closer to Pietros, so close that their shoulders brush, and carefully lowers the child into Pietros’s waiting embrace. After the long walk, he is reluctant to release her; one large handle cradles her head as Pietros holds her close. She hiccups and a delighted, breathy laugh escapes his lips.

“No, you could not.” Pietros sits at the table and gently begins to rock the bundle of blankets back and forth. “The black doe gave no milk earlier; try her.”

The goats do not enjoy being disturbed so late at night, and bleat angrily at him, but Barca is able to coax milk from one, and returns to the house triumphantly with a half-full pail. The girl is fussing again, little mewls spilling from her lips, and Pietros coos soothingly in response. From his bag, Barca draws the small clay cup he bought in the marketplace that day. Pietros looks surprised to see it for a moment, and then shakes his head and reaches for it.

It is difficult to get the babe to drink, at first; she sputters, and cannot seem to latch to the small spout. But Pietros is patient, and finally the girl seems to have her fill. Her cheeks are plump, her eyelids heavy. Barca thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.

“You do not stir at all in your sleep,” he tells Pietros. “She will be safe in our bed.”

Pietros looks skeptical, but they retreat to the bedroom, and he places her gently in the center of the mattress. Then he hovers anxiously for a few moments, staring down.

“This—you are mad,” he whispers with a low laugh, and turns to look at Barca with eyes that shine even in the dark.

“Apologies for not consulting you.”

“Barca...” Pietros throws his arm around him, and Barca hugs him back tightly. “Gratitude,” he whispers.

Barca pulls back and cups his chin, staring earnestly into his eyes.

“I followed the wishes of my own heart as much as yours. She will be _ours_ , Pietros—as long as you wish it.”

“I do. I love you.”

He kisses Barca, and for a long moment Barca forgets how to breathe, how to think. Every nerve in his body thrums with contentment, and he releases Pietros with a long, low sigh.

“To bed.”

He lies on one side of the mattress, Pietros on the other. There is space between them, a buffer of air between their bodies and the babe in case any should move in the night, but they are close enough to touch, to gaze at her small body and share their warmth.


	2. Corvus and Merula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic mentions of crucifixion and abandoned infants.

The bodies on the crucifixes are indistinguishable. They have been on the cross too long; animals and the gods have disfigured their faces, and Barca stares down at the long, long row in a haze of somber silence. He wonders which of these people he knows. Crixus, certainly, and Domina’s girl, if she did not perish earlier.  He has heard Gannicus’s name spoken of, and Oenomaus’s, though the latter less frequently. Rhaskos, Lydon, Varro, perhaps… not Spartacus. They never found the body.

Barca thinks of the little headstrong Thracian, who gave Doctore such grief, and shakes his head. Who would have guessed that such a wild little shit could become great in legend? But then, was any other foolish enough to take on the might of Rome?

 _I was once that foolish_ , he thinks, and he squeezes one hand tightly over his branded forearm.

A raven alights on the body closest to him. Barca sends it away with a sharp word, but the bird does not go far. It settles on the ground, several feet behind the base of the cross, and lets out a low cry. It peers at something on the ground, its head cocked, and Barca follows its gaze curiously. Resting in the shadow of the crucifixes is a pile of red-streaked blankets. The bird does not approach the pile, but it stirs absent wind, and Barca’s heart grows cold.

He rushes over and falls to his knees; the bird takes to the air. His hands shake as he pushes aside the blankets to find two tiny infants.

“Fuck the gods,” he breathes.

They are small, as small as Elissa as the day he found her, and dark of skin—not full-blooded Roman—but pale in the cold. The girl is stirring faintly, but the boy does not move. Barca lightly rests his fingertips on the babe’s mouth and is relieved to find breath stir against his skin.

He reaches into his pack and tears out the thick blanket that Pietros insisted he bring along. He begins a low, soothing murmur as he delicately picks up first the boy and then the girl, and wraps them in the warm wool. He tucks each against his body, and shivers at the touch of their cold skin against his arms. He does not take even a moment to worry what he will do with them, or what Pietros might say. He closes his eyes, sends up a prayer to Tanith, and turns from the crucifixes.

-

In Capua, he turns into the nearest inn. It is well crowded, with visitors to the city and with locals partaking of meal and drink. Barca relies on his glare and his elbows to shove through the crowd, and approaches the woman in charge.

“I need a wet nurse,” he says abruptly, wasting no time on a greeting. “For two weak babes. Do you know of any woman willing to offer aid?”

She hesitates, and looks over his shoulder. He turns to see a man standing there, his mouth turned in a frown.

“Show me,” he orders.

Barca’s grip tightens, and his face is hard.

“To what purpose?”

“My wife delivers many babes, of slaves and poor plebs,” he says calmly. “I may know of these.”

“’Tis truth,” the barkeep speaks up. “She brought all of my boys into the world—and Florus is respected medicus.”

Grudgingly, Barca allows him to see the babies, and he nods gravely.

“A mother’s nourishment would be best,” he says. “I can take you to her.”

“You are sure?”

“My wife delivered twins not two hours past. I am sure.”

He takes Barca deep into the city, then the bowels of a townhouse. In a small, windowless room, on a mattress, lies a slave woman in fitful sleep. The bloodstained blankets around her look familiar. She awakens as the medicus kneels beside her, and Barca draws back his cloak so that she can see her children, nestled in his arms. She sits up, her eyes wide with wonder.

“I thought them gone from this world.”

“They would be, had I not stumbled upon them at fortunate moment. But they are weak, and in need of mother’s milk.”

She hesitates, then nods and reaches out. Barca kneels by her side and hands over the girl. The boy is frailer; he knows from experience with Elissa that a sick and weak child takes longer to latch on. He slips the tip of his finger into the boy’s mouth, attempting to coax a reaction, and listens as the woman speaks in a hoarse voice and nurses the girl.

Her dominus is the father of the children. She hid her condition from him for months, and then persuaded the medicus to tell him that she would die if forced to take herbs. She thought, foolishly, that in the months she carried the children, her dominus would change mind and allow her to keep them. Hardly had they been placed in her arms, when they were ripped away and stolen from sight.

She cries when she tells this part, and tears sparkle on her dusky breasts. Finally, the first babe has had her fill. Barca picks her up, and the slave begins to suckle the boy.

“Are you a slaver?” she asks, staring down at the babe at her bosom. There is boldness in her voice, but the final word trembles. Barca holds out his branded forearm.

“No. I once stood slave, but I was granted freedom.”

“What will you do with the children?”

Barca stares down at the child in his embrace. He brushes his hand over the tuft of dark hair on her head.

“Raise them. I have a daughter—three years old. My wife is unable to bear more children, and we have no heir. Our farm is far from town; my girl would be grateful for company.”

The words, both true and false, come easily to his tongue. Tears shine in the slave’s eyes again.

“Bes has sent you,” she whispers. “The gods are good.”

Barca looks at the feeding babe in her arms, and the sleeping one in his, and hopes fervently that Pietros sees it so.

-

For three days, Barca is able to secret the twins to their mother for nursing, as the woman’s dominus visits his villa in the country. After that, he no longer takes the risk. He remains in the city for another three days, though, so that he can take the infants to a wet nurse. It puts a strain on his purse, and he is obliged to sell off one or two of the gifts he had bought for Pietros, but he wants to strengthen them for the journey.

It is almost a week’s walk from Capua to the farm. By the time Barca spies the house, early one morning, his head, feet, and arms are all aching. The twins have been crying on and off for days. Milk was scarce on the road; one or twice he came across herdsmen willing to offer the milk of goats, or a horse, but otherwise, they have been subsiding on water and the thinnest barley gruel. It does not agree with them.

“Pater, Pater!” Elissa shrieks as he approaches.

She comes running from the house, naked, with her hair streaming back behind her, clearly in the process of bathing and dressing for the day. He imagines Pietros’s hands tightening uselessly around air as she slips from grasp, and laughs. His daughter collides with his legs.

“Hello, little bird. Have you been caring for Patronus while I was gone?”

“Yes, helped Patro,” she parrots seriously, and squeezes him tightly as she babbles in words that resemble Latin only marginally. As Pietros appears in the doorframe, Elissa holds up her arms, demanding Barca pick her up.

“Not now, my girl. See?”

He kneels down so she can see the twins. She regards them for a moment, and looks up hopefully.

“Dolls?”

Laughter rumbles in his chest, and he leans forward to kiss the top of her head.

“No. Babies.”

“Babies,” she repeats.

She reaches out a small hand, but Pietros hastily drops to his knees beside her and seizes her arm.

“Gentle, Elissa,” he warns, and slowly guides her hand to softly rub at the boy’s head. “Gentle.”

With great care, Elissa strokes her brother’s head and then reaches out to glide her other hand up and down her sister’s arm. Barca watches her for a moment, and then looks up at Pietros.

It’s been… nine years, almost, since the first time Barca has laid eyes on him. He has changed. Work has built muscle in his body, and age shorn youthful fat from his face. There is a proud tilt to his chin and a straightening to his back that he did not have as a slave, but the worries and weariness of freedom has carved faint lines around his eyes. His hands are calloused from farm labor and sure from caring for Elissa.

But his smile is the same—he looks on the children with the tenderness once reserved for newly-hatched chicks, and then on Barca with such love that his heart seizes in his chest.

“One day, you must learn to warn me,” Pietros murmurs.

“One day, you must learn to punish an old fool as he deserves.”

Pietros laughs and reaches out his arms. Barca has become well-versed in how to balance two so small; he carefully arranges the babes in Pietros’s hold, and swings Elissa up onto his shoulders, at her insistence. The sunlight graces the back of Pietros’s neck as he walks back into the house, and Barca follows.


	3. Tydeus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic references to suicide. (Man, this fic has a lot of sad warnings for a happy ending kidfic...)

The twins are ten months old, just taking their first steps with the aid of fathers and furniture, when a man comes to their house in the late evening with a bundle in his grasp. Barca cannot help the scowl that leaps to his lips; Turtius is one of the villagers who looks on him with reluctant respect, and on Pietros with scorn. But before he can say a word, Pietros gives him a sharp look, and Barca remembers that the man is a new widower, his wife having died three weeks past in childbirth, and he tempers his reaction.

“Turtius—you have come a distance. Will you have a cup of wine?”

Pietros stands, but the man shakes his head, his face pale.

“Gratitude, no. I have a matter of some urgency to discuss.”

Barca looks at Pietros, who frowns and slowly sits, lifting Corvus up onto his lap. Barca stands to fetch the wine himself.

“All the more reason to drink, then. You had better sit.”

Turtius sits at the table. His eyes dart around the room as Barca pours him a cup. He seems surprised by what he sees, and his eyes linger on the furniture, the storage of food, the clothing that they wear and the jewelry at Pietros’s wrists, neck, and ears. Pietros ignores his scrutiny, and smiles to himself as Corvus tugs on his necklace.

Barca sits down again, and watches with keen eyes as Merula makes her unsteady way around the table to stand at Pietros’s side. The twins have expressed a clear preference for Pietros’s company—not that Barca would think to blame him. In their place, he would probably make the same choice, he thinks with a smile. They still laugh when he blows their hair out of place, and will clutch at him readily enough when he attempts to quite their screams. He enjoys watching his children grin at the sight of his lover, though, and seeing the eagerness with which they amble towards Pietros when he enters a room.

He feels a sudden, unexpected flash of pure pity for Turtius.

“Gratitude,” Turtius repeats as he sips the wine. His arm shifts, and Barca can see that there is a babe in his grasp. His eyes are closed in peaceful sleep, and a tuft of golden-brown hair curls over his forehead. “I must beg a favor,” the man says, clearing his throat. “I—apologies. It is difficult to…”

“Speak it,” Barca says crisply, and the man nods to himself.

“I cannot raise my son,” he admits. His voice is hoarse. “Since my wife died, I have taken food and drink only when forced. The sight of the boy moves no happiness—the nurse hates and scorns me. My brother lives too far to take the child, and is burdened with many other children, besides, and my wife had no living family but her parents, too old to care for a babe. But you—” he leans forward eagerly, his eyes wide, and Barca feels revulsion creep up his spine. “You take in children who are of need—”

“We take in children absent parents,” Barca corrects sharply. “When in such a position to provide for them, as parents should. With three of our own, none above five years, and a farm, we cannot take on an infant because his father will not be troubled to raise him.”

“Barca,” Pietros says quietly. Turtius looks ashamed, and he swallows thickly.

“It is a crime, what I ask of you. But—I ask for the boy, not for myself. If I am to keep him… he will be raised in misery. I wish more for him.”

Elissa is falling asleep at Barca’s feet, leaning against his shins. Her head lolls and he runs his hand through her soft hair. She seems to turn into his touch, so he leans down and picks her up, resting her against his shoulder. Turtius’s eyes flicker to rest on her, and Barca thinks of the neighbors who turned their heads and muttered when they first saw her.

“We have other concerns,” he says, his voice hard.

“What is he called?” Pietros asks. Barca gives him a look, but Pietros keeps his eyes steadily forward. Turtius turns to him, holding the babe out as if Pietros will take him. Pietros peers into the bundle of blankets, a curious expression on his face.

“Tydeus.”

“A fine name.”

“Of my wife’s choosing. Please…”

Pietros hesitates for what seems like eternity. Then, slowly, he stands and walks over to Barca. Mutely, he hands over Corvus, and then goes to take Tydeus from his father’s hold.

“We will need money,” he says bluntly. The child squirms in his grasp, small whimpers falling from his lips, but Pietros quiets him easily. “We cannot continue our labor and mind four children at the same time; will your nurse consent to come here?”

“Yes,” Turtius says, nodding vigorously. There is relief in his face. “Anything. Allow me two days to make arrangements, and I will return.”

Barca thinks grimly of this past harvest season. The _convenient_ death of the region’s landowners in Spartacus’s raids had eliminated their debts on the farm; however, the cost of hiring a nurse to care for three children while Barca and Pietros harvested the grain had been nearly as taxing. Yes, money will be necessary. He attempts to negotiate a sum with Turtius immediately, but the man makes a hasty exit, and there is quiet in the room for a long moment.

Finally, Barca stands and puts Elissa to bed. He places Corvus beside her, although the boy always needs coaxing from Pietros to truly fall to slumber, and returns to the main room. Pietros is facing away from him, his skin dark in the low candlelight.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, though his voice is softened.

“You brought home three. Am I not allowed one?”

“You argued with me for six days before we brought in a nurse just for our three, because you feared they would not get proper attention. _Four_ children, Pietros?”

Barca walked over to him and wrapped his arms around Pietros’s waist. He rested his chin on his lover’s shoulder, and stared down at the child in his arms. His eyes were beginning to fall closed in sleep. Barca kissed Pietros’s neck, and Pietros laughed.

“When we are old and grey, the harvest will be easier.”

“We need clothes. And more space. And more goats.”

“A thing we have known for months. Tydeus merely pushes us to accomplish necessary actions sooner.”

“Demanding little fuck,” Barca grumbles softly, reaching out to brush one finger over the boy’s cheek. He thinks of his own father, and sighs. Mago had not waited three weeks after his wife had died to turn out his son. Nor had he bothered to find replacements. “Bed,” he murmurs into the corner of Pietros’s neck.

“Yes.”

-

The next afternoon, there is a knock on the door. Barca, smeared with food and smelling of milk, answers it impatiently, to find a small woman—barely reaching his chest—on the doorstep.

“My name is Servia—I was Tydeus’s nurse. I am to work for you now?”

“Yes,” Barca says, though he is puzzled. “Come in.”

Without a word, she walks in and scoops up Corvus, who is mewling for Pietros’s attention. She bounces him with the ease of long practice, and takes Merula from Pietros.

“You’ll want to go to town,” she says. “Have they been fed?”

“Tydeus was fed,” Pietros says, brushing hair from his face. They’re both exhausted—it has been a trying morning. “Merula would not eat, and I did not tend to Corvus—those are the twins. Elissa has—Elissa!” he scolds, turning to see Elissa’s bowl overturned as she happily sticks her fingers in her milk. Barca rocks Tydeus gently.

“Why must we go to town?” he asks. “Turtius asked for two days’ time.”

“Turtius is dead.”

Barca freezes in place, shock coursing through his body. Pietros gives a weary sigh.

“How?”

“Fell on his sword. He left a letter by my door, telling me I would find the boy here, and that you must go to town for the money. All to you, in exchange for Tydeus’s care.”

She refills Elissa’s bowl, sets Corvus and Merula on the floor, and walks over to Barca, gesturing to take the babe. Barca looks down at his son, and feels a fierce revulsion at the thought of letting him go, even for a moment. Pietros comes over and lays a gentle hand on his arm.

“We do not know how long we must be in town,” he says.

Reluctantly, he gives the boy to Servia. Together, he and Pietros fetch their cloaks, their caps, the paper bearing Batiatus’s seal. They hastily tell her everything that could be of importance, kiss their children on the forehead, and depart. As they turn onto the main road, Barca grabs Pietros by the arm.

“You knew of his plans?” he asks. Pietros looks at him sadly.

“I guessed.”

-

When they return home that night, Elissa calls their names, but refuses to turn from her toys. Merula crawls as fast as she can to greet them, while Corvus walks halfway, leaning against the table, falls, and remains in a fit of petulance. Barca lifts Tydeus into his arms and hugs the babe close. The nurse takes her wages and departs, and together Pietros and Barca sit at the table, surrounded by their children, their fingers intertwined. They are weary, and burdened by the weight of worries.

And yet, if Barca were pressed to remember a moment when he was more content, he does not think he could find one. He lifts Pietros’s hand to his lips.


End file.
